


some greater and destroying passion

by elithewho



Category: Babylon Berlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, Drug Use, F/M, Fluff, Marathon Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:06:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17568788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elithewho/pseuds/elithewho
Summary: Gereon drinks a drink meant for Charlotte and lives to regret it.





	some greater and destroying passion

**Author's Note:**

> listen, if a train made out of gold can exist, so can sex pollen. and it's just not an otp until sex pollen.
> 
> thanks to Morgan for the beta <3 ilu, bestie.
> 
> title is from _The House on Marshland_ by Louise Glück.

By the time they reached his flat, Gereon was sweating through his shirt. Charlotte had been throwing him worried looks since the tram. Sweating, shaking, short of breath—he might have been in the middle of an episode. But it wasn’t that.

“Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?” Charlotte said pointedly as they stood inside the foyer, Gereon leaning heavily against the door as soon as they were inside.

There was a little knot of worry between her brows. Her mouth was painted red, her eyes rimmed in pencil, dark and alluring. It seemed he couldn’t look at her at all without imagining her beneath him. Or on top of him. Beside him. Every configuration.

He closed his eyes, groaning softly. Charlotte made a small noise of concern, then her hands were on him, and he gasped, breath hitching. She was only taking off his coat and hat.

“You don’t look well, Gereon,” she repeated and he only shook his head.

She’d said the same thing to him earlier at the nightclub. He’d felt so overheated and dizzy, clutching the bar, she’d taken his arm gently and asked if he needed medicine. Insisted that she escort him home. The tram had been... interesting. No seats available, Charlotte standing close enough to touch as the car bumped and swayed them side to side. No wonder he was sweating.

Charlotte lay a cool hand on his fevered cheek and Gereon couldn’t help but lean into it. Like a cat arching against her leg. The thought filled his head with images of falling to his knees, rubbing up her leg, past the hem of her skirt, the edge of her stockings...

They had been working earlier. Technically. If they had danced some, it was only to make them fit in more and not make it so obvious they were only there to interview a suspect. A man in the corner kept buying Charlotte drinks, bothering her to dance. It had irritated Gereon even as Charlotte laughed about it. Irritated him because they were working, no other reason. Until finally he–

“You shouldn’t have stolen my drink, I think,” Charlotte muttered, helping him out of his jacket. Her hands felt deliciously electric on his skin, even through his clothes. Like tiny sparks, flickering.

“I think you’re right,” he mumbled haltingly, distracted by her hands at his sides, sliding up over his gun holster. They had been working, after all. Technically.

She pushed him back onto the bed. He was liquid, ready to spill. It was amazing how calm he felt, yet his heart was beating hard and fast. The inverse of his usual fits. He loosened his tie to relieve the pressure on his throat. Too hot inside all his clothes; sweat prickled his neck, beaded on his forehead. The bed dipped: Charlotte joining him.

“I’ve heard of this,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she assessed him. “How do you feel? Aroused?”

She was so frank about it that Gereon closed his eyes with a groan. But her hand was on his thigh, inching up. He licked his lips slowly.

“You don’t have to –” but Charlotte shushed him, her finger on his lips like a brand. She was very close now, leaning over him.

“I saw a girl rub herself on a stair rail to get off, she was so desperate,” Charlotte said lightly, and her hand was on the bulge in his trousers now. Gereon groaned, deep and despite himself. Charlotte sounded more tender when she said, “You must be in agony. Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered breathlessly, even as Charlotte unfastened her dress and pulled it over her head.

“That drink was meant for me,” she said, sounding almost guilty now.

He wanted to tell her not to be such a martyr, but that was impossible to get out when Charlotte was only in her slip. The thinnest cotton, it had seen so many washes that the fabric was quite translucent. He could see the outlines of her nipples and he couldn’t be such a saint either. He pulled her into his lap, his mouth on hers. It was sloppy, too desperate, not his usual refinement, but Charlotte didn’t seem to mind. She clasped the back of his neck firmly like a trainer guiding her horse, tugging on his hair just enough to make him shiver.

Only the feel of her bare skin could stop the tremors. His heart pounded as he reached up her slip, sliding past her stocking and garter belt, over her smooth belly, to cup her breast in one hand. He palmed it, flicked her nipple with his thumb and she moaned softly into his mouth.

The sound compelled him to roll her over, slot his hips against hers and grind down as though his life depended on it. And judging by how fast his heart was thudding away, it might've. Charlotte, at least, did not seem put out by his clumsy desperation. She helped him out of his clothes, Gereon batting them away with fumbling movements, every moment he wasn’t touching her an agony. Charlotte was still in her garters, slip rucked up almost to her breasts when Gereon pushed in after a few false starts, prick bumping clumsily against the juncture of her thigh.

There was a blistering heat between them as he moved, Charlotte's heels planted solidly in the small of his back, holding him tight against her. Like she was as desperate as he was, unwilling to let him go. He could kiss her breasts, suck one nipple in his mouth and then the other, her moans in his ears turning his legs to jelly as he fought to keep rocking into her, to keep that intense, steady pace. He was so close...

But even as he emptied inside her, the intensity of his orgasm making his eyes cross, the world turn blurry around him, he knew it wasn’t over. Whatever had turned him into this creature, this desperate, rutting thing, hadn’t let him go. His hot cheek lay against her breast, panting and worn out, heart still hammering.

“Gereon,” Charlotte said, squeezing his shoulder. Her touch roused him. “Let’s not fall asleep now.”

He let her turn him over, climb on top and shuck off her slip, toss it aside with a smirk. Her stocking had a tear in them, one of her garters snapped off. Gereon touched her everywhere he could, letting the waves of pleasure roll him around like a tiny pebble in the ocean. Back and forth, side to side, crashing and twisting with the tide.

It was bliss; his hips rising to meet hers, her thighs cradling him. But she wasn’t only a receptacle for his pleasure. Charlotte leaned down, pressed the palm of his hand to her breast and its firm nipple; took his other hand and sucked two fingers into her mouth, flicking the sensitive tips with her tongue in a way that made him groan, hips stuttering. His wetted fingers went between her legs to rub smoothly against her clit and she rocked harder, head tossed back in pleasure.

Her name was the only word he knew as he came again, and a third time. A fourth didn’t feel possible, and yet. His fingers circled her clit, pinched a nipple; she tightened around him, a molten heat. Gereon thought of a pan sizzling, dangerous and alluring; the way butter crackles as it melts. He licked up her breast, turned them over as Charlotte panted, coming down from her orgasm. He slipped out of her, cock aching fiercely but still hard. He kissed down her body, her chest heaving as she panted, down to the joining of her thighs, her damp curls and her delicious cunt.

“Oh my god,” Charlotte groaned, distantly. Her thighs pressed firmly around his ears, muffling her moans, but they reverberated through her body. All he had to do was touch her, like a needle to a record; he heard them like music from a phonograph.

Gereon could have laid there forever, tongue inside her, her sweetness filling his senses, his painfully hard cock rubbing against the sheets. But eventually Charlotte pulled him away, gripping him firmly by the hair. And she was on him again, the bedframe shaking and shuddering beneath them, knocking against the wall in a steady rhythm. He held her hips in a firm grip, meeting her thrust to thrust, the sparkle in her eyes never dimming even as they fluttered closed in ecstasy.

Years might have passed. Gereon would not be surprised to come to and find himself an old man. Instead, when at last he lay beside her, thoroughly wrung out, he dimly registered the birds chirping on the balcony and his hands unwrinkled. Steady.

“It’s dawn,” Charlotte murmured, and Gereon was too exhausted to respond.

She stroked his hair, rubbed the back of his neck, hands trailing along his shoulders. He lay between her breasts again, arms curled around her. He felt like a carcass in the butcher shop, hung up to drain with its insides scooped out. But Charlotte’s arms were tender, the beat of her heart steady and warm under his face.

Charlotte shifted, hands leaving his hair, and Gereon’s arms tightened instinctively.

“Don’t go,” he said hoarsely into her skin, regarding her with a groggy earnestness.

“I’m only getting comfortable,” she said with a fond and gentle smile.

Despite the sweat drying on his skin, Gereon shivered. She pulled the covers up around them, kissed his brow. He curled back around her, content in her arms.

 

 

Gereon woke with a start several hours later. It was the bells that roused him. He was missing morning mass. Charlotte was still there, spooned up snugly in the curve of his body, a bundle of exquisite heat. His own movement hadn’t woken her; her expression remained slack and peaceful, hand curled up daintily by her face.

Memories of the previous night returned to him like a bad dream. In the milky light of midmorning, Charlotte’s body told its own tale. A bruise on her throat, one on her hip; hair tousled, makeup smudged. But she looked content, serene. The picture of ravished delight.

Gereon eased himself out of bed. Still felt vaguely shaky, his whole body was like a tender bruise. He had a shower, shaved and dressed himself, keeping his unhelpfully spiraling thoughts to a minimum. He calmed the panic further with a shot of morphine.

Through all his ablutions and after, Charlotte slept on. There was an aching part of him that wanted to crawl back into bed and drape himself around her. Kiss her awake and ask if she wanted breakfast.

Instead, he went to church. Mass was over, the flock filing out. The priest gave him a questioning look that made Gereon’s insides twinge with guilt. It was always that way on a Sunday, no matter what he had done.

He knew he should not feel so badly. Charlotte had hardly been unwilling. It had been hazy at first, but the relative stillness of the church after service allowed his head to fill with potent memories of the night before: Charlotte moving above him, the rock and reel of her body, flushing a tempting pink like sweets in a store window.

In the house of God, Gereon's face heated up. He’d been out of his mind, desperate beyond his ability to think clearly. At all. He’d never intended to bed Charlotte, yet he couldn't deny thinking about it from time to time. Perhaps hoping for it, and to be more in his right mind when—if—it happened…

They were colleagues, first. Friends perhaps. He hadn’t wanted to be the type of man at the police station who chased the secretaries and typists and acted a lech. He had more respect for her than that.

People were filling the aisles again, queueing for confession. He joined the line obediently, dread filling his stomach with lead. The confessional would forever make him feel like a guilty child.

With ten Hail Marys in his pocket for wanton fornication, Gereon made his way home. He went slow, hands deep in his pockets, mind churning. He thought of Charlotte all alone in his bed, surrounded by memories of the night before.

He stopped at a café, purchased brötchen with marmalade for them both and impulsively, only vaguely embarrassed at the cliché, a bunch of flowers from a street vendor.

But when he arrived at his flat, there was no Charlotte. Only an irate landlady who gave him a talking to about making obscene noise and being a nuisance. Cheeks aflame, dread in his stomach, Gereon sat heavily on his unmade bed with his breakfast and now useless bunch of flowers.

He’d have breakfast for two, then. The sheets still smelled like her.

 

 

"I have your report from Saturday night,” was the first thing Charlotte said to him Monday morning. She had a small scarf tied around her neck, not her usual fashion statement but not atypical either. Heat settled in his belly as he remembered the mark on her throat.

“Thank you,” Gereon said slowly, taking it from her hand. “Charlotte–”

But she was already walking out. There were concrete bricks where his stomach should be after that. She was polite, certainly, but she seemed determined not to treat him as anything more than a colleague.

The entire day, he could not prevent his mind from latching onto bits of memory from that night: Charlotte’s thighs tightening around his hips as she came; her tongue flicking against his fingertips; her gentle embrace he lay in her arms after it all. That was the worst part, remembering the aftermath, clinging to her like he had once relied on a needle.

That was still there, of course. Midday, he snuck to the restroom to put a syringe in his arm, head nodding off against his chest as he sat on the lid of the toilet seat. He only felt marginally better afterwards, his nerves calm but his heart still aching. His fingers were numb and clumsy as he packed up his kit, dreading the return to his desk and Charlotte’s cold indifference.

“Gereon?”

Funny that they should meet here again. Perhaps he should petition to have more ladies’ rooms installed.

She tapped feebly on the door when he did not answer. He stuffed his morphine in his trouser pocket quickly and steeled himself to face her.

“You’ve been in here a long time,” she said, expression tight with worry.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, pushing past her to the sink to wash his hands.

Charlotte touched his arm and he couldn’t help but flinch. There was a spot of blood on his shirt, he realized. He hadn’t been so careful with the injection.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and it was so surprising that he turned around to look at her.

“ _You’re_ sorry?”

Charlotte eyes were huge and imploring in her face. “You were–you were not in your right mind,” she said, and he gaped at her.

“I was not so helpless,” he said with a wry laugh. He took her hand. “You helped me. You didn’t have to.” Faced with skepticism, he did the only thing he could think of in the moment: he raised her hand to his face, kissed her knuckles. “I’m not usually so selfish,” he mumbled, but at that she let out a sputtering laugh.

“You call that selfish?” Then, more seriously, “You aren’t disappointed in me?”

He shook his head.

“That’s a first, then,” she said. “You usually are.”

Her other hand lightly touched the crook of his arm, where the spot of blood showed through, brows knit in concern.

“Don’t worry about it,” he muttered, kissing her hand again.

She didn’t look convinced. Maybe he couldn’t convince her of some things, but he was sure he could with others.

Once work was done for the day, he took her out for drinks. They wore their work clothes but, in a twist, weren’t working. The band in the corner played gregariously, enticing them to dance, but he wasn't really interested. Gereon only wanted to take her home.

“I was most disappointed because I wanted to take my time with this,” he said later that evening, kneeling in front of her, helping her out of her trousers.

Charlotte’s lips twitched into a small smile, eyebrow raised. “We spent plenty of time together, if I remember correctly.”

Gereon, smirking, kissed her inner thigh. “I want to savor you,” he said, nudging her legs apart.

“I’ve always wanted to be stew,” Charlotte said with a laugh, but then she moaned, his tongue teasing her clit. She laid back, fingers working into his hair.

They’d have all night. And the rest of his life after that.


End file.
